Yesterday, I was at the market getting new spring produce since I’m tired of eating sweet potatoes and kale. Excited with the coming season, I had picked up some ramps and strawberries and spring onions. I was hunched over the mushroom basket taking my pick of the newest morels. I only wanted a few, for one dish I had planned out with some of Zingerman’s polenta[1]. At $59.99 a pound, a few was all I can afford. I was busily inspecting them and selecting a small handful when some woman, who wasn’t an employee but some other customer said to me, “Don’t they sell them in baskets?” The mushrooms are in small baskets but you can pick and choose them since they’re horribly expensive. She was trying to tell me to get a basket ($60 just in mushrooms, anyone?) and be done.

I was irate but I played dumb. I did my best doe-eyed expression and asked if she wanted one of them. “No,” she said, fat and blonde and stupid, “I just thought they sold them in baskets.” Yeah, whatever. Keep your pug nose out of my business, wench. She probably doesn’t even know what morels are. I hate when people think they know better. Perhaps next time, I should take the entire basket of creminis because, you know, they just sell the basket. Or what about the entire 20 pound box of white onions in the back, just because, you know, they sell just the basket.

I’ll stagger off to bed now. Today I hung the top bar of the new closet doors and bought the newest LP in my collection… Turkey[2].

P.S. I just wasted 2 hours watching The Time Traveler’s Wife. Eric Bana is stunning but the movie’s just awful. I hate time travel. It’s one of the unforgiveables in fiction for me. I’m still deciding whether I should bother ripping it or not. I doubt I’ll sit through it again.